Not My Story

Into the Wild on the shelf, almost picked up but for thoughts of my health,
mental and in an insulated way, eternal. His journal, not mine. Not my story.
I get eaten by the bear. Taken by the lonely. Hunger. In a different sort of manner.
The prayer. To know the churning gut of God. Eaten by the massive immoral immortal
mortar of the universe. God. Lost Into the Wild to the healthy lunch place’s bookshelf.
Clean glass chess pieces on clean glass battlefields, no suspect fingerprint off
some chugging crown, furrowed brow, bullets flying and forks like swords
stuck in the hands of the hungry. Eyeballing me. Who know my fate.
Who are not yet and will never be full from what they ate.

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